It's beautiful.
We visited Adam's father before his big trip West, and of course the Bomo clan. On the way home, our smokey-engined bus was taken out of service. This, of course (and trying the bus at all) was something less than romantic.
Waiting for another Bolt Bus to come down to get us stranded travelers at the Turnpike rest stop, a Greyhound on its way back from Atlantic City had pulled in because their toilet was broken, had empty seats. We asked the driver if he was headed to New York. Yes. We quickly peeled off a twenty and asked if he would take us there. He snatched it and was full on, "Get on in."
That pooch road that turnpike like I used to do bitches in college. (Excuse me, I was just possessed by some maniacal and very bad, clearly misogynistic, beat poet.)
She pulled into the basement level of Port Authority and we were home.
It was worth the bus hustling to get down to spring.
The driver patted me a thank you as we left (since some other Bolt people got on, too. But they had A tickets, based on their early purchase, and some deal was struck on some cell phone between Bolt and Greyhound.)
Interesting slog up the mid-Atlantic.
Trains are better.
Crocus.
No comments:
Post a Comment